


The Smell of Blood and Comfort

by the_song_you_gave_me



Series: Brick in the Wall [7]
Category: Alpha and Omega - Patricia Briggs, BRIGGS Patricia - Works, Mercy Thompson Series - Patricia Briggs
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 04:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15089453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_song_you_gave_me/pseuds/the_song_you_gave_me
Summary: Warren’s out for blood after he feels his Alpha fall. Meanwhile, Charles and Anna both fight to maintain control as Darryl and Mercy each face Bran in their own way.





	The Smell of Blood and Comfort

Charles carries Adam’s dead body through the woods back to the Marrok’s house, but Mercy refuses to let anyone carry Adam’s head other than herself. Her dead mate’s blood drips down her front as she hugs what’s left of Adam close. Tears of anger streak through the grime on her cheeks.

Bran walks in front of them, dutifully cradling the golden wolf that was Leah in his arms. Mercy tries not to notice how the muscles of his back move with every step.

Her eyes rest on the edge of his slender waist, but she’s not looking at him. She’s pissed at him. So what if it was to protect her from Adam’s wolf gone mad? Bran killed her mate, and she hates him for it. Mercy clings to her Adam’s head.

Their macabre party walks out of the woods and Bran peels off for a moment. Mercy follows Charles to the bed of his truck still parked outside the house. He lays Adam’s body down and Mercy sets her mate’s head where it should be. Her hand lingers between the silver-blue wolf’s black ears.

It wasn’t fair, she thinks.

Bran returns, having set Leah’s corpse somewhere. He wears a ubiquitous tee and pack sweats, holding another set of clothes folded under one arm.

“Mercy,” Bran offers the clothes to her.

She ignores the Marrok and walks straight into the house, proud, still naked, and covered in blood.

Her control lasts just long enough to get through the door and out of Bran’s sight before she breaks into a panic again. “Shower. Now.” She whispers to herself, shivering with fear and sweat. She needs to get the smell of blood off her body.

The cool tile of the guest shower soothes her forehead as warm water massages her back. The soap in the Marrok’s guest bath smells of juniper and mint. Dark red swirls and dirt washes down the drain at her feet. The steam cleanses all. Before long, she feels like herself again- maybe not whole, maybe never again. She's shaken, but at least there's a head on her shoulders. The water loses its heat.

Someone put her clothes from this morning outside the bathroom door, probably Anna. Mercy can smell the Omega’s scent on her clothes, as she ducks around the door just long enough to snatch and dive back to the safety of the bathroom.

Anna must be back to walking around human by now, the clothes have a slight scent of the Change on them. The pile also has Adam’s flannel shirt folded neatly into it. Mercy looks at the shirt sitting there on the bathroom counter as she pulls on her underwear and bra. She reaches out to touch the pattern. The soft, strong fabric feels threadbare and worn under her fingers. Adam’s scent touches her nose, and she shudders a gasp.

Her body recalls his weight on her, clawing at her skin. That same scent as the shirt mixed with blood, witch magic, and crazed wolf clouds her memory, blinding her senses. The tile of the bathroom floor hits her butt as she clings to herself, shivering in a ball up against the porcelain of the tub. His teeth- his teeth were tearing into her flesh…

The lock breaks from the strength it takes to turn the metal handle from the outside. The door opens only a crack.

“Mercedes?” Bran’s Welsh tones carry from the other side. Mercy shivers, unseeing.

Bran steps in cautiously and crouches down to be even with her level. That misleading demeanor makes him look smaller, like a doormat ready to serve, when usually, for all points and purposes, his strength has no match. Bran waits in front of her, assessing with those pale, golden eyes as she struggles through her panic.

His hair is wet and sticks up in unruly spikes. The clean scent of lemon soap pairs well with the sweet and salty mint and musk of his skin. “Shh…” he croons, his voice a Celtic lullaby reminiscent of his son Samuel’s. Or maybe Samuel originally sounds like him. Mercy darts her eyes to his face. His wolf looks to her arms still wrapped around her shoulders.

She needs to puke. Mercy runs from the wolf and kneels before the porcelain goddess as what’s left in her stomach spills from her mouth. Bran slowly rises after a second. He draws her hair away from her face and loosely twists it together. He holds her hair in place with one hand casually on her back. By the end of it, she’s dry-heaving.

The sound of water rushes from the sink, and Bran offers her a filled glass that was waiting on the counter for guests. She takes it reluctantly and moves past him to reach for the toothpaste set out with the other toiletries.

He stays beside her, so that when she turns, his chest is too close to hers. For a brief moment she’s caught in his arms and it feels safe. He’s just a little taller than she is. His scent and his warmth draw her in.

“I hate you.” She tells his collar bone.

His hands trace her arms. “Mm.”

Mercy pushes away from him, and he lets her go.

Back against the bathroom counter, she sinks to the floor. Her legs no longer have the strength to stand. She refuses to cry again.

Bran’s wolf considers her, sitting there on the floor with her knees up. Mercy senses his gaze, even as she pointedly avoids it. His hesitation feeds her, makes her feel strong, knowing she can at least stand against him. Even so, tears flood her eyes. Most of it is stress, though the smell of relief tempers her emotions too.

He’s at her side as soon as the first tears fall. She feels stupid, throwing her arms around his neck and dripping salt water on the cotton of his shirt. Bran picks her up off the floor, cradling her with one forearm under her knees, the other supporting her back. She bites back a cry, pulling herself closer to his scent.

The Marrok carries her out into the hall and into a spare bedroom nearby. The lights are off in the simple room, though sunlight streams through the closed curtains. Basic furniture in bland tones of dark blue and grey serve as a welcome space for anyone who needs it. Bran closes the door behind them and slowly sits against the door, Mercy still in his arms.

She burrows her face in his shoulder, not wanting to show weakness and yet relying on his strength. His hand moves to the back of her head, stroking her softly as he bows his own head closer to hers. Her hands move to his chest. Her nose traces a line from his shoulder, up his neck, to the base of his ear. Bran’s heartbeat doesn’t change, but hers speeds up. His nose flares.

Mercy leans in to him, moving one leg so that she sits on top of his thighs. His legs are more muscular underneath the pack sweats than they first appear. The loose fabric hides how he is. Bran tilts his head back to the door. His other hand drops to her waist. “What are you doing?” he asks.

She nips at his ear, biting down slowly with the edge of her teeth, not really putting strength into it. She sucks on the tip of his earlobe and draws back to whisper, “I could ask you the same thing.” Her lips brush the line of his jaw until she comes to face him again. Mercy asks, “What are your intentions, Bran?” His irises glow with a pale, yellow light.

Mercy adjusts the weight on her knees, moving in closer to Bran’s hips. She can feel him underneath her, a comforting pressure through the thin layers of cloth. She laughs. “I like that furrowed brow of yours,” her voice comes out soft and husky, like velvet. She kisses the wrinkles over the bridge of his nose, “It’s cute.” Her hands trace down his t-shirt to his abs. Of course the muscle there is chiseled to the perfection of a Greek statue.

Bran’s hands tense at her waist. “Mercy,” his voice chides, not lacking any of that Welsh lilt she doesn’t always get to hear. She could listen to him speak like that all day and not hear a word he says. Bran leans in closer to her face, his power unquestionable. She feels uncomfortable holding her head higher than his like that, so she sits back on his thighs. He holds her gaze.

“A new wolf is driven by instinct.” He reminds her, “Your hormones right now are a side effect.”

She meets his eyes and grabs the cloth over his stomach, diving upward for her kiss. His lips are soft, and open against hers before closing again. Bran draws back, “I’m not going to take advantage of you like this.” His hands hold her waist firmly away.

Mercy doesn’t let him go. She cocks her head. “What makes you think I’m not in control of my instincts?” she smiles and leans forward into him again.

He catches her with his lips, causing her to sigh and release his shirt. His hands slide down from her waist to hover over the thin cloth and elastic over her hips. Her fingers trace up the inside of his shirt, wandering over the warm, chiseled flesh and muscle of his stomach. She finds a tight nipple and teases it with her fingertip, flashing a toothy smile between kisses. He… purrs, and Bran’s hands pull her in closer. His warmth between her legs, his strength, and that unquestionable desire course through her skin in happy shivers as she presses harder against him. One of his hands finds the small of her back, the other traces her spine up to her bra strap. His kisses slow. “You need to heal.” He says softly, “This can wait.”

“No.” She protests, kissing him again. He returns it, with interest, another soft peck.

“If you change to your wolf, it will help. You’re on borrowed time right now, Mercy.” He raises a brow, “Or do you want to wind up fainting in my lap?”

“You wish.” She touches her forehead to his. His fingers trace down her spine, back to her waistband again. She melts against him, unwillingly noting there might be something more to her sudden weakness than just his touch.

She sighs. Just to be contrary, she shifts to her coyote form.

Bran un-clips her bra, helping her out of her underwear by freeing her paws. He runs his hands through her fur, a bit of surprise showing on his features. “How are you still a coyote?” he smiles, bemused.

Mercy shakes her head, then her whole body. She puts her paws up on his chest, feeling stronger already. The Change did help. At least her muscles feel like moving again.

Bran kisses the top of her coyote’s head and stands to open the door. Mercy ducks through, leading the way with her tail a flag in the air.


End file.
